John had barely set foot into the flat when Sherlock started swarming around him. He felt Sherlock bump into him several times as he circled. He grabbed at the bag in John's hand.

"It's mine." John said pulling it away. Sherlock yanked it from his grip and started tearing into the rucksack. "There's no milk in there." John said as Sherlock started digging through his belongings.

Sherlock thumbed through his reader and eMagazines, gave them a sniff and then threw it on the coffee table. He turned through the snacks John brought, sniffed them as well, and threw them on to the coffee table with the ebooks. He reached the end of the bag, turned it inside out, and rubbed his face and neck against it.

"Are you?" John asked with a shocked gasp. Sherlock obsessively scrubbed his face with the exterior of the rucksack as well. He let it drop on to the floor and returned to his bedroom.

John plucked the bag up with two fingers and held it away from himself. Sherlock pretty much owned his bag now. At least he didn't mark it.

Juvenile behaviour, in adults, wasn't entirely unacceptable. It wasn't unusual for Alpha males and females to be playful well into their fifties and it wasn't frowned upon as long as it was kept in check and didn't interfere with their daily lives. Most of their play exerted their dominance: a playful shove, a game of keep-away, and of course tag.

As Alphas matured, tag became more and more covert. It was a way of privately shaming another Alpha. One Alpha would tag another Alpha before a business meeting began and the Alpha that was 'it' would have to sit in silent agony until the meeting was over or they'd risk it and get up, excuse themselves to go use the facilities, and try secretly tag the other Alpha back without being caught.

Play was tolerated; sometimes promoted by office picnics and get-togethers but marking was strictly frowned upon. Many of the behaviours Sherlock exhibited were not acceptable at his age or any age for that matter.

John felt sorry for Sherlock, being cooped up all day. He'd wallow in his own scent and refuse to eat solid food. Most days he wouldn't even bother getting out of bed.

John let Sherlock deal with the natural consequences of his actions in a frail attempt at treating him like an adult. At the start of the week he'd bring the bag of milk and if Sherlock decided to down it all in one go, he wouldn't have any until next week. Sherlock slowly became less panicked about eating and rationed his milk more wisely, though he still hid away to drink it. John thought, at the very least, Sherlock was ashamed of still drinking milk. It was a move in the right direction.

Sherlock started coming out of the bedroom more often and for longer periods of time. He mostly ignored John and took up his violin. He was an absolute loon, virtuoso one moment, manic the next. John was growing fond of the man, he constantly found himself shaking his head and cracking a smile at his antics.

Every day when John entered the flat it was the routine check-up. Sherlock would dig through John's belongings, scent a few, and then leave John to perform his duties. He really didn't have to do much for Sherlock except show up. He was expecting Sherlock to be needier; he hardly asked anything of John. It was the easiest money John had ever made.

Occasionally there were outbursts but nothing unmanageable.

"I need some, get me some." Sherlock growled as he paced the sitting room.

"It's not my fault you decided to consume all the milk. We could go out and get some real food."

"Out?"

John thought a moment; there weren't any explicit rules against it. "Yeah... why not?" Sherlock looked out the window and bit at his thumb. "You don't get out much, do you?"

Sherlock drew the curtain closed. "Curry. There's a place down the way."

"You're coming with." John said gathering his coat. Sherlock wasn't going to become properly socialized being stuck inside all day.

Sherlock was apprehensive at first but once he hit the street and got a whiff of fresh air, he was a good twenty steps ahead of John at all times. John thought it went without saying but he had to remind Sherlock several times not to sniff people. "Guess it's a bit overwhelming... being outside." John laughed.

Sherlock shrugged and kept walking with a hurried pace. He stopped abruptly and started growling. He had his teeth barred and his fists were clenched tight. He grabbed John suddenly and pulled him in by the collar. John was dragged up on to tip-toe.

"Sherlock." He choked out.

"Lestrade." He hissed. John looked down the empty alleyway. Sherlock eased his grip and let go of John slowly. He started walking down the alley, sniffing at the air.

"Nobody's here." John said fixing his collar.

"He's been here... with Anderson."

John looked over the dark, damp, and narrow alley. "When?"

"A week ago."

"Sherlock." John said with a small whine. "Sherlock!" He lunged for Sherlock who was fumbling with his trousers. "Don't you dare!" He shoved John aside. John looked away, keeping watch, while Sherlock marked the dark alley. John turned when he heard Sherlock fasten his zip and start redoing his belt. "Better?" Sherlock ignored him and left the alleyway.

Both public and private marking were criminal offences. It was conveyed as a gang symbol, but more often than not it was some wanna-be teenager looking for trouble. Pups were taught at an early age not to mark, school yards were actively monitored and unacceptable behaviour was nipped in the bud.

John feared Sherlock was past the window of opportunity for major changes in his behaviour. If it wasn't for his brother, Sherlock would have likely been outcast. The last Prime Minister did away with state funding for mental health services; the mentally unstable either ended up in the penitentiary or were sent away.

Homelessness was also considered a criminal offence. Those without an abode were rounded up and released to the outskirts of the town. It was a cruel system but it supported the best and brightest citizens that were willing to work to earn a living. At least that's what the government told the civilians. They were one of the world's largest cohesive packs and anti-social behaviours were not to be tolerated.

Their government told them they should consider themselves fortunate. There were no breeding restrictions in place like there were in India, China, and oddly enough South Eastern Australia. Southern France and the Americas had a terrible bout of inbreeding depression and therefore had to become semi-nomadic.

England had its history of bottle-necking but the lethal alleles had been mostly purged from the population through years and years of breeding on the small island. Gene flow, though it did occur from time to time, was rare and highly limited to those who passed rigorous screenings.

Londoners were a very tight knit group, infanticide numbers were near the lowest in the world. Canada, of all places, had the lowest infanticide rate yet the highest siblicide rate. Homicide was always an issue; it was almost always an Alpha aggressor and an Alpha victim. The occasional beta dispute would arise but they were nowhere near as violent.

Sherlock showed a slight interest in CSI but he was far too immature to hold a post at the Met. Moreover, Sherlock would have to be Lestrade's inferior. He would never stand for it.

John had formed many opinions about Lestrade before meeting him at Mycroft's residence one day before work. Lestrade opened the door and John near toppled over and down the front steps when he caught whiff of the man. He thought Sherlock had a strong smell, Lestrade near brought him to his knees in submission. He was the Alpha male, no wonder Mycroft chose him as a partner.

Lestrade was very comfortable in his own skin but seemed to be crowding the doorway. He looked John over intently; he had his brows furrowed in concentration. He reached out a prone hand and John wasn't certain if he was meant to shake it or be led into the house.

John grabbed Lestrade's hand and was into the reception room. He shut the door behind them and John felt a shiver run down his spine. "Beta John Watson?" Lestrade inquired.

"Yes..." John said with a gulp.

"Have a seat, Mycroft will be out shortly." Lestrade had a stern look on his face.

"Did I do something wrong?" John asked tentatively. Lestrade shook his head and when he looked at John again his eyes had softened.

"No, nothing's wrong. He's... he just takes a while to get ready. Omega-types, you know?" John took a seat on the sofa and Lestrade sat right next to him, crowding his space again. If it was meant to intimidate John, it was working. "So you're a beta male?" He leaned forward and John noticed him discreetly trying to catch a closer whiff.

"Yes... um... castrated."

Lestrade pulled away. "Oh." His eyes became clear once more. "You... have you been working at the hospital?"

"The missus and I own a laundry."

Lestrade laughed. "That's it." He shook his head. "Sorry." He scooted back on the sofa and gave John some breathing room. "You smell like ten thousand different heats."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't even..." John came to a revelation. "No wonder Sherlock has been scenting my belongings."

"Has he now?" Lestrade asked with interest.

"I bet everything I've happened to drag through the laundry is scented with a whole myriad of unfamiliar Omega scents. No wonder he's all over me when I walk through the door." Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. "All over me about searching my rucksack I mean. Must be a heyday for an Alpha." Lestrade gave a slow nod.

"So you're married?"

"It's... unbonded yes... The wife went through an early menopause and we just kind of..." Lestrade nodded in understanding. Mycroft walked in unannounced and greeted John with a strange warmth that made both men on the sofa uneasy.

He was just starting to show. John cocked his head to one side. It was peculiar that he'd be showing so early, only three months in. He looked to Lestrade who had an all-knowing grin on his face. He saw Lestrade mouth the word 'mine'.

If he wasn't proud of the last five he was rumoured to have sired, he was of this pup. John wondered if he'd actually settle down and bond. He couldn't do much better than Mycroft; he was practically royalty. Moreover he was a ginger. Gingers had been all but wiped out until they became a hot commodity in the royal blood-line. Everyone wanted little fire-haired pups that stood out from the crowd of brunettes. John and his wife were both blonds which were becoming scarcer with each generation.

He felt a slight pang of remorse looking at Mycroft's belly. He wished he'd been able to give his wife children. It seemed like a lot of his life was out of his control.

Mycroft took a seat on the adjacent sofa and John was surprised when Lestrade remained seated next to him, he expected him to be highly defensive of his mate, even if John was a beta, he was still a male. Not that he was interested in Mycroft. He couldn't do anything anyhow. He was reproductively worthless.

That night his wife helped him scrub every bit of Lestrade's scent off him. She kneeled by the tub and scoured his back with a loofah.

"I told you! Didn't I say he reeked?" She laughed lathering him up a third time.

"I walked through the threshold and it was like, whoosh!" He imitated the smell coming at him full force. They both laughed.

"Smells worse than usual."

"He's living with his pregnant mate again. He's probably marking up the place for all I know. Oh, and speaking of marking, Sherlock finally dropped trou and marked an alleyway."

"You didn't get caught?"

"No... but he wasn't exactly discreet about it."

"Oh! You reminded me, I went to the library today."

"Oh no, you didn't."

"Got a whole stack of readers about parenting pups."

John covered his face with his hand and laughed. "He's thirty plus odd years! Those books are for children."

"He's a man-child. Give em a read! You have nothing but down-time."

"I suppose... but I can't be reading them around Sherlock. He'll probably go off on me."

"Has he bit you?"

"No... why?" John turned to see his wife pressing into his left shoulder blade.

"You have a mark."

"Oh, I've always had that." He said dismissing the thought. "Don't worry about it." His wife scrubbed it gently.

"Haven't ever noticed it before."

"Well, we don't normally have the time for this... sort of thing." He looked into his wife's eyes and smiled softly. "It's nice." She nodded in agreement.